Simon Snow: Carry On, Baz
by rhien
Summary: Baz lives in every AU. Maybe. (Starting from "The Fifth Hare," in Rainbow Rowell's Fangirl.) Warnings: a little meta, a little crack, and a lot of sad. This story is all madamewhitecake's fault.
1. Chapter 1 - Prologue

It wasn't that Baz didn't _notice_ things. He had always been plenty observant, thank you very much.

Maybe it was just that Baz's life suffered from a sad lack of mortal peril before Simon. He didn't notice anything very weird until after the first hare incident, at Christmas break, sixth year. Till after he and Simon killed the Moon Rabbit.

He shouldn't really have been able to hold on to the beast—the way it thrashed about, the blood-slick fur—vampire strength or no, it was a little incredible. Especially as he had been far from full strength at the time. But desperation and adrenaline (and bloodlust) could account for a lot.

And after they killed the Rabbit, he rather immediately had other things to think about.

#

It wasn't _Baz's_ fault. Simon was the one who'd been _grabbing_ at him all night—Simon pulling on him in the boat (grabbing his cloak, shoving in so close that Baz had to shudder and slip back onto the dock _right that second_ before he leaned the wrong way, nearer to those intense blue eyes, before he pulled Simon even closer—and got decked in the process, no doubt); Simon taking his arm when the rabbit first fell out of the mural on the ceiling; Simon _holding his hand _in that faery-damned nursery, for Crowley's sake.

All Baz had done was fall asleep on the floor for a few minutes; he'd been tired, exhausted, practically starving after weeks without a decent drink, and though sleep didn't really solve the problem, he couldn't help it. And when he woke up, just a little later… Simon's hand was in his, alive and so warm and wrapped around his chilly fingers, and Simon was asleep, too.

This was certainly an accident, he told himself, very firmly, and only let himself count to ten before withdrawing his hand from Simon's. (If he counted a little slowly… no one needed to know that.)

It wasn't his _fault. _It wasn't his fault, a few minutes later, that he'd had to resort to vampire strength to stop that horror of a rabbit. True, at least he got a solid meal out of it, _finally_, but then he had to stand and turn and face Simon. A Simon who finally knew the truth.

When he turned around, covered with blood, dripping with blood, sated with blood, and threw the Sword of Mages at Simon's feet… he didn't really know what to expect. Shock. Horror. Accusation. Definitely some kind of righteous indignation. Possibly an attack. On second thought, he probably shouldn't have given Simon back the sword… it had been a reflex. A stupid, suicidal reflex, he scolded himself. But Baz felt so much better now, after finally getting to _drink_. Warm and strong, and all his senses tingling. I can hold him off, he thought.

Not that that would help in the long run.

Simon picked up the sword slowly, and wiped the gore off it.

Baz didn't know what to do. Fight back? Run away? Try to talk him into… what? He couldn't hurt Simon… he _wouldn't_.

That's ridiculous, he snapped at himself. You'll do what you have to.

He didn't know what to do.

It wasn't his fault that all Simon said was, "You all right?"

Baz couldn't speak. Not a word. He could barely lick his lips and nod.

"Good," said Simon, so sincerely; and he might just as well have punched Baz in the stomach—he couldn't breathe through the shock, shock so profound that he could think of nothing that could've forced him to move.

Nothing except for fire.

Obligingly, the dead rabbit burst into flames just behind him, and so he _had_ to move and they had to deal with the rest of that mess.

And then Simon kept acting so… normal. Suggesting showers and breakfast and generally behaving as if he did things like this all the time: Eating bread and apples on the kitchen floor, sitting right next to Baz. Fighting monsters together, like allies. Watching his roommate reveal himself to _be_ a monster.

Casually asking questions about that. Calm, _concerned _questions. And offering _help. _Like he cared. Like they were friends. Like they hadn't spent the last five and a half years tormenting one another incessantly, one way or another. Like Simon hadn't hated him since the moment they'd met.

"I don't hate _this_," Simon replied to that last part. "What you're doing—denying your most powerful urges, just to protect other people. It's more heroic than anything I've ever done."

This was nonsense, of course, from start to finish. Baz wasn't trying to protect anyone, except himself and his family. (_And Simon, _a stray thought whispered. Shut up, he told it.) But Baz didn't disabuse him of the notion. It sounded like… like….

Like he didn't think Baz was just a monster.

It wasn't Baz's fault that Simon had to go and offer to help him. Had to go and kiss him.

And Baz was tired from being up all night, but he didn't bother with disbelief or denial. There was no way that this was anything other than pure reality—Simon leaning into him with soft lips and scratchy jaw, the taste of cheese and apples in their mouths, his warm breath against Baz's cheek. So real that it was sharp, painful almost. Baz leaned in and sighed.

He felt like nothing in his whole life had ever been as real as this.

Then they heard footsteps on the other side of the kitchens, near the east doors, and they broke apart. Baz thought for one terrified moment that Simon would look horrified or disgusted. But instead Simon only grinned slightly, grabbed Baz's arm, and scrambled up, staying ducked down below the metal-topped prep islands. They managed to sneak out without Cook or any of her minions catching them. (Which was a really good thing, since Cook could hold a grudge forever, and there was a certain incident with a wand and a microwave that Baz knew she wasn't forgetting any time soon….)

And they managed to sneak back up to their dorm room, where Simon immediately proceeded to kiss him _again, _almost before they were through the door. This time no one walked in to interrupt.

A couple of hours and a nap and a ridiculous amount of snogging later, Baz lay on his bed, sun falling across his face, thinking idly of how they should probably get up, the Christmas Day feast and all. And how it all sounded like a terrible idea, if it meant Simon had to move out of his arms.

"But…." Simon lifted his head from Baz's chest and spoke suddenly, as if it had never occurred to him before, "you breathe."

"Ever observant," Baz said, but his eyes were closed and his voice was completely without edge.

"But—" Simon blinked, and splayed a hand out over the bare skin, right over Baz's heart. "And you have a heartbeat."

Baz could see where this was going now, but he was too lazy to do anything but nod. And listen to it, to his heartbeat, against Simon's warm palm. (_Enjoy it while you can,_ the back of his brain was telling him. Any minute now they'd start fighting again, or Simon would remember Agatha, or how much Baz despised the Mage, or… or something. It was always _something._)

"So… vampires aren't undead?"

Baz gave a gusty, dramatic sigh. "Too many horror films, Snow," he said, but he kept his tone only mildly bitchy, because Simon had grown up gandry—in the non-magical world, surrounded by non-magicians—and so it wasn't entirely his fault.

"You said you'd let me help you."

"I did," Baz had to admit.

"So—I need to know things, then."

Baz shifted, restlessly. "If you'd just listen in class…."

"Well, I thought I'd get it from the source. Original research," Simon said lightly, resting his chin on Baz's sternum. It poked, Baz squirmed; Simon raised up and moved a hand underneath as padding, still looking up into Baz's face.

It wasn't as if Baz had been raised with vampires or anything. Much of what he knew, he'd gotten from the same books as anyone else. And he didn't particularly want to talk about it; didn't even know how, to be honest—he had never discussed this with anyone. But he took a breath, and stared at the ceiling, and tried anyway.

"They're not undead. They're just… a type of magical creature. They… I'm not like a zombie, or a ghost. I breathe, I have a heartbeat, I grow. Get taller, all that. I'm not stuck as a four-year-old forever, thank Crowley." Simon was watching him, and trailing his free hand up and down Baz's ribs, lightly. It was rather distracting.

"I'm colder than normal," he continued. "I'm… strong. And fast. I heal quickly." His voice was getting softer and softer, and he closed his eyes. "I need to… to drink every few weeks at least, or I start 'looking like hell,' as you so eloquently put it earlier."

He felt Simon nod his head, then felt fingers touch his forehead, the drying sweat there, and then his lips. "I don't think you're cold."

You are clearly already biased, Baz thought, and shivered a little at the notion. _Really? Already?_

"And as for blood," Simon said, and his voice didn't stutter or hesitate over the word; Baz opened his eyes and looked at him, and saw a gleam in his eye, "want to help me hunt some more rabbits?"

Baz stared at him for a long moment, then flipped them over and kissed him as hard as he could, Simon laughing and protesting into his mouth.

It wasn't Baz's fault that Simon had to go and change _everything. _But Baz would be double-damned if he wasn't going to hold onto that change for as long as he could.

Even if it made his chest feel strange inside—unbearably soft, absolutely malleable.

When Baz was very small, he used to watch Nanny Trillian knit: the flicker of her needles, how one long string of wool became a sweater or a sock, a scarf or a shawl. His favorite part was when she made a mistake, or decided to redo part of a project. She would slide the needles out and then let him pull on the yarn, which would run back and forth down the fabric in a fascinating and strangely satisfying way, making a soft _thup-thup-thup _sound, unraveling so quickly into a pile of easily-tangled wool. And then slowly knit back up, rewoven into something new.

Inside, all down his core, he felt like that yarn, unraveling. And it was terrifying. But he decided to let it happen anyway.

And that _was_ his fault.


	2. Chapter 2 - Found Out

Of course, they couldn't keep it to themselves forever.

The last day of winter hols, Baz and Simon discovered that the sigil on the drawbridge turned out to summon a huge, rabbit-shaped water demon. They did finally manage to kill it, but not before its death throes flung Baz into the moat. The good news was that this washed off most of the blood (pale blue blood, with an aftertaste almost like salt-water taffy), and the merwolves left him alone for some reason.

He dragged himself halfway up the shore in time to see the water rabbit's body dissolve, oozing down into the slushy ground, and leaving behind something small and made of stone—a tiny bowl? Simon snatched it up and tried to help Baz clamber the rest of the way out of the moat, but tripped in the process and fell right on top of Baz, on the edge of the bank.

"Snow, if you could kindly refrain from trying to crush me to death…" Baz began, breathlessly, but Simon was laughing, and pulling Baz to his feet, and then tugging him closer by his algae-stained tie, and Baz quit complaining.

"I thought you said swimming in the moat was a bad idea?" Simon leaned closer, face tipped up, grinning. The tie was still wrapped around his hand. Baz, dripping wet and stinking with chilly, stagnant moat water, opened his mouth to answer, but another voice did it for him.

"It _is _a bad idea. A _terrible_ idea. How are you not eaten right now?"

It was Penelope Bunce, gaping at them, her cat-eye glasses glinting in the afternoon light. Penelope and—_dammit_—Agatha, too; both standing there in long, dark school coats, staring, next to a couple of suitcases. They must've come back early, on the bus from the village. And now…. Baz wondered how long they'd been standing there, how much they'd seen.

"First of all, what was that? Second of all, what was that?" Agatha gestured first to the ground where the rabbit had dissolved, and then to the two of them, still standing rather close together. Simon stuck his muddy hands in his pockets but did not otherwise move; it was Baz who stepped (he wouldn't say _flinched_) a little away.

"It was an _aqualapine_," said Penelope, because she never could resist answering a question. "But what was it doing here? They're not even from this plane—" She looked at Simon, looked at Baz, looked at Simon _and _Baz, and did _not_ answer the second question.

Baz almost wanted to laugh. Penelope already knew, did she? Or at least suspected. Well, he couldn't deny that she was clever. She had always been far and away his most serious competition when it came to marks.

But Agatha clearly wasn't stupid either, looking between the two of them, her eyes narrowing slightly. Her hand was clutching at the little shoulder bag she always carried—the one that held her magic mirror. As if she was tempted to draw it.

Baz looked steadily at her, and his wand hand twitched.

But Agatha nodded, once, then took the telescoping handle of her suitcase and pulled it after her, quickly, past them and over the drawbridge. Her blonde hair blew out behind her like a curtain of sunlight.

"Agatha," Simon began, and concern and affection were woven so densely in his voice that Baz's stomach dropped right out of his body, but she didn't stop or turn, just continued through the archway, into the fortress.

They all watched her go, and then Penelope looked at the boys, and after Agatha again. She sighed, scratched at her head (her red hair was done up in long braids wound around it), and took hold of her own suitcase. She looked at Simon and Baz and jabbed a finger in the air at them. "We _will _be talking about that _aqualapine,_" she informed them, and then headed off after her roommate.

Baz flexed his hands, willing them to relax. Simon heaved out a long breath, and Baz glanced at him. He looked so relieved—glad that nobody got cursed, most likely. Baz thought they could probably keep it that way. Now that break was over.

He had thought… he'd thought he'd have at least one more day, though.

He felt—as though his skin ached, but it wasn't as if he'd been injured, in spite of the water-demon. His throat hurt suddenly, felt thick and raw, but he swallowed it down, and figured he could at least finish all this with his dignity intact.

"Well," he said, and was pleased to find that his voice was reasonably steady, "that's that, then. It's been…." But he couldn't finish that sentence, or look Simon in the eye, so he turned towards the Veiled Forest, stuffed his fists into his pockets, and started walking.

For a moment he thought Simon would actually be sensible and leave him _alone_, for _once_, in all the time since they'd met, _just leave me alone, don't let's _talk _about it, just let me go sit in my tree and try to breathe, for Crowley's sake,_ but it was too much to ask, apparently, and after a few seconds there were footsteps rushing up behind him. Simon was protesting; Baz's ears were pounding and he didn't really hear properly. He wanted to cut Simon off, but his throat was hurting again and he couldn't quite speak, so he just kept walking, towards _his_ oak, his favorite, a few yards inside the edge of the forest, perfect for climbing, with the most wonderful wide branches and crooks for sitting in. (He'd found it his first month at Watford, and he visited it regularly. No one knew about it—except Simon, now. He'd shown it to him the day after Christmas. Like a gift. Should have known better.)

They were at the tree-line when Simon grabbed his upper arm, and Baz rounded on him, snarling. "What do you _want_, Snow?"

Simon narrowed his eyes at him. "What is _wrong_ with you?" Baz could feel his face twitch slightly _(where would you like to start the list?)_, but Simon didn't seem to notice. "Bill Butler _Yeats_, Baz, you're soaking wet, it's _cold_ out here, where on earth are you going?"

Now that Simon mentioned it… Baz realized he was shaking all over, no doubt from the chill of the water. Wet jumpers, even wool, could only do so much. He felt profoundly stupid, which only irritated him further. "Don't trouble yourself, Snow, there's no need to pretend you care anymore. Trot on back to the dorms and see your friends, there's a good chap." _Chap?_ And now he was babbling like some ancient school novel. Why couldn't he just shut up?

"What are you on about?" Simon looked completely bewildered, and if Baz sighed any harder he'd end up light-headed.

"Just," and Baz kept his voice as neutral as he could manage, "now that your girlfriend's back, you should go and greet her properly."

For one long moment, Simon gaped at him. Then he said, "Baz—she's not my girlfriend."

"What?" Baz's teeth were starting to chatter a little, and he wrapped his arms around himself. He felt as if he were trying to stop from shaking apart. Which was irrational. It's not _that_ cold, he told himself.

Simon eyed him, grabbed his elbow and dragged him over to the foot of a tree—_my_ tree, thought Baz, looking up—and pulled out his wand, muttering. In a moment he had summoned a pile of wood, and was frowning, trying to light it.

"Oh, let me," Baz groused, shoving him over a little, and lighting it himself; Simon would either take so long about it that Baz would freeze to death first, or burn down the whole forest in the attempt. You could never tell which with Simon.

The heat felt good on his stiff-cold hands and face, and Baz crouched, crowding closer to the fire than was probably strictly wise. He stared at the heart of it, at the glowing red beading across the bark, and did not look up, even when Simon said, "She's not."

Simon waited, then said, "Agatha. She's not my girlfriend. I mean, she's my friend, and she's a girl, but…."

Baz rolled his eyes, and turned to warm his back a little. "Oh, come off it, Snow." (Baz might refer to him as Simon in his mind now, but he never forgot to call him _Snow_ aloud.) "Everyone knows about the two of you."

"There's nothing to know—"

Baz scoffed. "What about the ball last year? And you spend every waking minute with the two of them…."

"Yet you're not accusing me of dating Penelope?" Simon sounded amused.

Baz waved a hand dismissively. "She's far too clever for you, Snow."

"Well." Simon clearly couldn't argue. "But still. We're not."

Baz turned around again, glared at him with narrowed eyes.

"We've never even been on a date, Baz," Simon told him, insistently. (_Neither have we_, popped into Baz's head. _Unless you count hare slaying._ But if that sort of thing counted, well, then Simon had probably been on dozens of dates with Agatha, and with Penelope too, for that matter.) "And we've never," here Simon blushed, "_kissed_ or anything. We're _not_ dating."

"Does _she_ know that?"

Simon didn't answer for a moment. Then he raised his eyebrows and blinked at Baz. "Are you jealous?" Baz sneered. "You _are_," Simon said, but his tone was more wondering than mocking.

"Shut it, Snow."

"You are," said Simon, firmly. "But… I thought you knew. What, did you think I was cheating on her all this time?"

He sounded indignant, and Baz resisted the urge to rake his fingers down his own face. _Well, I tried not to think about it at all, you idiot, _he thought. It was one thing to _be_ a temporary stand-in, a short-term ally, a convenient snog, and quite another to _dwell _on the fact….

"'All this time' being a week and a half," was all Baz muttered aloud.

"Still," said Simon. "If you didn't care before… _did _you care before?" Baz clenched his jaw, refusing to answer on the grounds that he was _absolutely not_ going to talk about his own patheticness: that part of him couldn't have cared less, that as far as Simon was concerned, he'd take whatever he could get, for as long as he could get it; but he didn't have to admit it. Simon waited, but then finally said, slowly, "If you didn't care before, what's the big concern now?"

Baz turned his head and stared in disbelief. "Are you… are you really asking me, 'why now?' Because the hols are _over, _you brainless prat. Everyone else will be back tomorrow. And I thought… and your friends hate me, and mine hate you, and how is any of this possibly going to end well?"

"They don't hate you."

Baz looked at him skeptically.

"Only because you've always hated me," Simon said.

Without thinking, Baz said, "I don't hate you."

Simon grinned, wide, as if Baz had given the game away somehow.

Baz felt his cheeks burning, but pretended it was from the fire. "It doesn't matter," he said. "They'll help you with the rabbits now. You don't need me anymore."

Simon's grin fell. "Do you not want to help?"

"I—I didn't say that," said Baz, finally. He stared at the flames, where the wood popped and spit. "I just…." He swallowed hard, and kept his eyes on the fire, avoiding Simon's.

"Just what?"

Baz put his forehead onto his pulled up knees. "I just don't know if I can give everything up," he said, his voice a little muffled. "Even for you."

"What do you mean, give everything up?"

"Just… my friends. And my father—Crowley, if he hears about this… I don't know if I can…." _Why is my life is such a disaster,_ he thought. He looked up suddenly and fairly snarled, "And if you think that makes me a coward or a bloody weakling or something, Snow, you can get stuffed, you can just go f—"

"_Baz._" Simon reached over and grabbed the sleeve of Baz's jumper, and shook him slightly. Baz looked down at Simon's fist, clenched around the damp, dark green wool. He realized that he was almost panting and tried to take a few deep breaths. _I used to sneer and drawl at him when I got angry,_ he thought, unwillingly. _When did that change?_

"I don't want you to give up your friends," said Simon, carefully. "Why would I want that?"

The burning wood crackled. Baz forgot that he was avoiding Simon's eyes, and stared.

He had never thought that… this, whatever this was, whatever they had, if it was anything… well, he'd never thought it would exist at all. He certainly hadn't thought that it could exist outside the bubble of winter break, protected by the isolation, by getting to just be alone, without people around, _watching_ all the time. Saying, you're a Pitch, and he's the Mage's Heir, and what do you think you're doing? Even the people who knew him. Especially the people who knew him. The weight of what they thought they knew about him—sometimes it was like stones, around his neck, piled on his chest, crushing the breath out of him, burying him where no one could reach.

Simon just looked back, blue eyes clear and puzzled, gnawing slightly on his lower lip. "I mean," he said, hesitantly, "I can't say as I'm very fond of Malcolm."

Baz said nothing, but couldn't contain a wince. Malcolm Madder had been a bully ever since they were children, and he'd only gotten more vicious of late. He'd never been the most willing follower, either, and when this came out….

"Sorry," Simon said. "I really don't… Dev and Niall and Alan all seem all right. And anyway it's not… they're your _friends_. It's not up to me who you talk to, who you… tell things." He frowned. "I'm not going to force you to… to anything, Baz. And we don't have to let anybody know anything right now. If you don't want to."

"Too late." Baz jerked his head back toward the fortress, the drawbridge.

"It's just Penny and Agatha. They're my friends. They won't tell anyone anything if… if you don't want them to."

Baz took a deep breath, and ran a hand through his still wet hair, pushing it away from his face. "Maybe. Depending on how much they disapprove, I'd say."

"I'm not saying they'll be happy at first…."

Baz snorted. "Agatha certainly didn't look very happy."

"I'll talk to her." Simon shrugged. "I mean, nothing's certain, but I imagine they'll all probably get over it. Eventually."

_I don't understand you,_ Baz thought. How he could just shrug, as if it were light, the weight of all those people staring, the stones around his neck? _I don't know if I'll ever understand you._

Finally, Baz said, with a weak attempt at casualness, "I think Dev fancies Agatha."

Simon laughed. "Doesn't everyone?"

Again, Baz responded without thinking. "Not me."

"Not me, either," said Simon, with a funny sort of half-smile.

They sat in silence for another minute. The heat was making Baz's clothes stink with the moat water, a fetid, marshy smell, and they stuck to his skin unpleasantly. He stood and waved his wand, extinguishing the fire. It was time to go back to the dorm, and see if by some miracle his green-and-blue-mucked shirt could be salvaged.

They walked back, rather close together, their shoulders bumping every other step or so. Simon's pinky brushed the back of Baz's hand a couple of times.

"I do still need you, Baz," Simon said when they were almost to the drawbridge, so softly that it was almost a whisper.

Baz heard it, though, and said nothing, but he couldn't stop his breath from hitching in his chest. _Crowley, _he thought, gritting his teeth. _Crowley, Hennings, Yeats and Gunne, I am so doomed. _


	3. Chapter 3 - In the Cathedral

"Why is it called the cathedral, anyway?" Simon asked in a whisper.

Baz rolled his eyes. It was a Saturday morning, just before dawn, as they crept through the eerily silent doors of the cathedral. There was barely a hint of lightening sky through the tall windows that lined the main room—the nave, Baz's mind provided absently—and it was very dim and shadowy. (Though Baz could see just fine, of course. But the shadows were really very _oddly _shadowy.)

"It's not though, it's not nearly big enough to be a cathedral, cathedrals are huge."

Baz sighed. "Yes, Snow, I'm very glad that you've studied medieval architecture, now hush."

He should have known better than to ask the impossible, really. "It's just a chapel, really, so why would we call it a cathedral?" Simon continued muttering, as he peeked behind pews, checking to be sure no one was there.

He wasn't wrong, Baz had to admit to himself. But. "Maybe it's just the design," he offered.

From the outside, it did look much like a cathedral in miniature, nearly perfect. Flying buttresses (though surely such a thing was structurally unnecessary for such a small building), bells up in the towers, small gargoyles watching them from high on the walls, the intricate stained-glass windows of course—the whole reason they were here.

And it did echo strangely inside, more than you would expect, even with the high ceilings and all the stone surfaces. There was something odd about the heavy arches, something off in the inner proportions—how high _was_ that ceiling? how long _was _the aisle exactly, before the altar and curtained mirror next to it at the end? Sometimes there was a telescoping feeling, something that made Baz slightly dizzy if he turned quickly… magic, he thought. Who could tell. He didn't spend that much time here, apart from the obligatory rituals and gatherings. He did know there was an entrance to the catacombs in the corner, behind the mirror and the screens at the east end, under the rosette window….

Simon came back from looking behind those screens. "No one here," he said, still quietly. The stillness _was _a bit daunting.

That was why they had come this early, of course. It had taken a whole week and a half of classes in the new term before they had any opportunity to come investigate the stained-glass hare. A week and a half of Simon fidgeting about getting on with the hare-hunting. A week and a half of… oddness.

Simon must have spoken to Penelope and Agatha, because Baz had heard not a breath of a rumor about "Pitch and Snow" or anything related to it. He caught both girls staring at him occasionally in the dining hall—across the dining hall, since he and Simon didn't sit together now or anything. Penelope mostly looked thoughtful; Agatha mostly looked suspicious. Baz mostly tried to ignore it all, to pretend, in public, that nothing had changed.

No one else seemed to suspect anything different between them. Though Professor Chilblains had seemed pleased with their latest joint assignments in chemistry class and had made a comment about "finally working better together, it's certainly long overdue."

Things weren't really that different. And also they completely were. They still sniped at each other in class, but it was more good-humored, more of a challenge, less of an attack. Simon tried not to mention Baz's father, and Baz tried not to mention the Mage (and where was he, anyway? no one had seen him since the hols ended).

When Sir Bleakley went on one of his rants about the evils of vampires in Magickal Historie lessons, Baz set his face blankly, as always—but now Simon would scoot surreptitiously closer, till their thighs pressed together, or even gently put a hand on Baz's knee under the table. The first time it happened, Baz froze, not quite knowing what to do. The fourth time it happened (Sir Bleakley was rather prone to ranting), Baz took a breath and carefully snuck his right hand under the table, while he continued pretending to take notes with his left. Simon grabbed his hand and squeezed it hard. Baz let him keep holding it till the bells rang for the end of the lesson, and concentrated on trying not to lean into Simon's shoulder too conspicuously.

They were taking other things a bit slowly. Baz couldn't risk losing control of his fangs, or anything else, especially in the room. There was the Anathema to consider, he pointed out to Simon, who got that frown-crease between his eyes but nodded. (In fact, Baz just couldn't risk _Simon_… he had already had three terrible nightmares where he'd ripped into Simon's throat, and then woken thrashing in pure, gasping horror, alone in his bed. He'd had to check on Simon across the room—no smell of blood, no wounds, just his usual snoring into his filthy pillowcase; _Crowley, Snow, wash your sheets already_—and then retreat, to the common area down the hall, or sneaking out to the stables or the bell tower or down to the catacombs. Somewhere else, anywhere else, while he tried to banish the fear and the images from his mind.)

And then Simon had showed him the mysterious notes, about finding the white hares on the Watford grounds, about danger.

_So here we are,_ thought Baz, peering around the cathedral once more, as he approached Simon, who stood in the middle of the aisle, peering up at one of the windows in a southeastern alcove, near the front altar.

"There," said Simon, pointing, as Baz came up behind him. Baz just nodded, tipping his head back to study the window.

It was a wide, arched section near the top—green hills with windmills in the background and a rising sun, flowers and vines along the edges—and a leaping white rabbit across the foreground, surrounded by white swirls of mist or breeze. There was illegibly ornate writing along the bottom. The whole scene was just beginning to brighten with the dawn, the opaque white milky and opalescent, the reds and blues and greens vivid and glowing.

Simon looked at Baz. "Ready?" Baz nodded, and Simon stepped back.

At least Baz had managed to convince Simon that they should do at least a modicum of research in advance, for a change. They had a few options to try. Baz pointed his wand up at the window and said, _"Whistle down the wind."_ He waited, a little anxiously. This was an old phrase, not much in use anymore; perhaps it had lost all potency as a spell. Behind him, Simon softly whistled a few falconer's calls. It might not help, but then again...

A few bright rays of dawn light peeked over the edge of the window and through it, lighting up the stained-glass scene. It began to glow, brighter than any of the other windows, even the ones directly next to it.

Baz took a step back, bumping into Simon.

The light glowed brighter, then fell, like a slanted column, a spot-light, full of sparkles, down to the flagstone floor in front of them, and a figure appeared—a hare, white-gold and glimmering, sitting up on its hind legs, stretched long and thin and looking 'round. It was large—about as tall as Simon, but not nearly as huge nor as bulky as the other two had been. It looked very nearly delicate, misleadingly so, like one of the sighthounds in the stables… and it was transparent. Baz could see the pews through it, through the spiraling glints of golden dust within the hare's outline.

Simon smoothly shouldered his way just in front of Baz, wand clutched in one hand, his right hovering over his left hip. "What are your intentions?" he asked in a ringing voice. Simon always insisted on asking this first, though it had been pointless thus far. Baz couldn't decide whether it made him want to kiss the git, or to smack him.

The hare cocked its head, looking at them curiously out of one gleaming black eye, then dropped down onto its haunches, shaking its long ears briskly before looking at them again.

There was a sound, so odd that it made Baz shake his own head. It was like wind chimes, a mix of ringing and tinkling and the sound of the breeze itself shaking the chimes—and it felt like it was in his ears and inside his head at the same time. It left a lingering sense that he couldn't trust his own hearing.

Simon was grimacing, one hand on his head. "Baz, do you hear that?"

"Yes," Baz answered. It wasn't an _unpleasant _sensation, just deeply unnerving.

_"__Freeeee…"_ sighed the sound. The voice. It tinkled, chimed again, and this time Baz realized that was laughter, of all things.

He and Simon glanced at one another. Baz resettled his grip on his wand, and Simon said again, firmly, "What are your intentions, then? Now that you're... free."

_"__My intentionsss..."_ its voice trailed off into a long sigh. Speaking words, it had less chiming and more of the sound of air rustling. "_Yesss. I will find the othersss. But first."_

It moved closer, just one lolloping rabbit-step, though strangely graceful, as if it wasn't really touching the ground at all. Then it peered again, first out of one eye, then the other. "_You have freed me,"_ it said. _"I owe you a debt."_

"Oh Yeats," Baz muttered. Because that sort of thing never ended badly, with fairies and demons and genii….

Simon was obviously thinking along the same lines. "I'm not sure that's necessary—"

_"__I can See things for you,"_ the hare said in a magnanimous tone, clearly not listening. _"There will be something."_

"What?"

It took another undulating half-hop forward, the light moving with it as if a spot-light were trained on it; still lazily, but Baz and Simon both stepped back. _"Shh. No need to fear, children, the future can be readily seen, if not commanded."_

Baz raised an eyebrow, consideringly, but Simon quickly said, "I don't think we need—"

_"__It is a debt,"_ the hare said, transparent nose twitching as it lowered its head to the ground.

"Well…" Simon glanced at Baz, but he could only shrug. "Well, you—you don't have, um, an object for us, maybe? There was a key, and a cup..."

Sudden silence, sudden stillness. The hare didn't move, not even an ear-twitch, for such a long moment that Baz began to feel nervous. Then it spoke again, very softly.

_"__A key? A cup?"_

Baz grabbed Simon's arm before he could speak, and shook his head just slightly. The skin on the back of his neck was prickling, all down his spine. Danger, danger...

And then the hare was suddenly _levitating_, floating up off the ground like it had forgotten how to act like a normal rabbit, and the rabbit-shaped outline seemed to be growing dimmer. Air was moving, ruffling Simon's pale coppery curls, blowing Baz's black hair across his face. A low sound started, a wailing that grew and grew, like the wind among the trees out in the Forest, like the old air raid siren that Watford sometimes still used for emergency drills.

_"__Where are my siblings?"_

Baz tried to pull Simon surreptitiously toward the door.

_"__Where? Where?"_ The wailing drew the words out longer. The hare was barely visible now—the light in the room was bright and diffused, the hare grown so transparent that only the bright, rapidly swirling golden dust seemed to indicate its location—and that swirl was darting wildly about in front of them, around and back, like a flock of birds turning and flitting through the air. Baz didn't know where to watch, where to look….

"I'm sorry," Simon said, and Crowley if he didn't sound sincere. "They... they didn't say anything, they just tried to kill us. The Moon Rabbit only screeched at the sky when I tried to talk to it."

_"__Lies, liesss,"_ the wind-voice hissed. _"Tell me the truth!"_

"Snow, come _on, _let's just—"

"It _is_ the truth," Simon insisted, hands on hips, instead of fleeing like a normal person.

_"__Lies,"_ it said again, and suddenly Baz felt a terrible pain in his head, a pressure that made his knees buckle with the suddenness of it. Next to him, Simon cried out, and stumbled as well.

But he _knew_ this pain, like seeing a long-forgotten face. He hadn't felt it for years (since he was four, in the dim school nursery; a rough, implacable hand on his shoulder, pain in the side of his neck, glowing eyes before him, ordering him to _drink this now_ and a foul taste in his mouth), not for years... but he wasn't liable to forget, was he.

Though not exactly the same—this was less a compulsion, and more like someone dragging a book out of your hands and tearing frantically through the pages. He was overwhelmed with emotions not his own—fear, urgency, anger, with a vast underlying loneliness that made him want to stagger. As unnaturally vivid as a film, memories of their battles with the other two hares splashed across his mind's eye (shrieking giant hares, fear and adrenaline and Simon shouting about _intentions _and _we're not here to hurt you, _great Keats and Shelley, Baz had forgotten that bit). He could even see… was that _Simon's_ memories of fighting them as well?

Baz couldn't tell how long it lasted—seconds? minutes?—but just as suddenly he was released and gasping, huddling on the floor. Simon was next to him, struggling to sit up, as air still whipped around them, a tiny storm.

The wind hare was moaning now, wuthering, like some bloody Brontë novel, and they may have all been magicians, but Anne was the only sensible one... Now isn't the time for literary criticism, Pitch, he told himself, not when that voice was keening, but with words...

_"__Dead, murdered, how, how, how could you, you're just _children,_ we are ancient, even penned for centuries by that damnable wizard, how could this happen…"_

"I'm sorry," Simon said, even as he tried to help Baz sit up. "You saw. I did try."

_"__How, how, how…"_

"Maybe, after centuries, they… forgot how to talk," Baz said, just to say _something_, as he elbowed Simon and tried to signal him wordlessly to draw his bloody _sword, _did the boy have no sense _at all?_

_"__Never_,_"_ the voice snarled, ringing discordant and awful now. It seemed to come from all around them at once, and Baz couldn't see the golden storm of dust… and where had he dropped his wand? _"Never, you must have done something… I would never forget speech, speech is air, is breath, is life… what did you do?"_

Another dig into Baz's head—gods, it felt like a fist grabbing behind his eyes and wrenching. Again, the battles with the other two hares flashed rapidly before him (no hint of Simon's memories this time, and he could, distantly, feel Simon shaking his arm and shouting, but he couldn't respond), and then a flare of irritation from the hare, and it began rifling deeper, through other memories, flicking through them almost too quickly for Baz to register… it was so strange, memories, especially old ones, that were normally faded and vague, but now suddenly springing to disconcerting life in his head... Father, frowning and shaking his head over some infraction, his disapproval like a hook in Baz's five-year-old throat; leaning against his tree, unobserved, watching Niall and Dev laughing and wrestling over something on the Great Lawn, a strange mix of relief and wistfulness in his chest; little Arachne, his sister, newborn and fussy and fascinating, and he was too afraid to hold her, he might _hurt _her…; breaking Simon's nose last year, that give of bone, that vicious satisfaction, that flood of shame; and… oh gods… her face, Mother's face, he—he'd forgotten, and this was vivid and real in a way that the photograph he kept hidden under his pillow at home could never—

It was all too much, and he kicked, mentally. The pain in his head suddenly dulled to a vague ache, though Baz was still unable to pull away, or to speak, or to move much. _Oh, so you _can_ do this without feeling like you're ripping the top of my head off,_ Baz groused inwardly.

Unexpectedly, he got a reply. _Of course I can, _and it was accompanied by a vague unease. _I was in a hurry before. _The feeling of urgency had died down, and was replaced by some puzzlement. _How strange you are, vampire-child, all wound about with fate…. And your threads are faint._

_What threads, what are you talking about?_ Baz growled, still struggling futilely.

_Threads_, it said. _Like so._ Baz got a sudden mental image: threads, strings, tied to him like a web, each connecting—connecting to others. There was Niall, and Dev, his father, his little sister and brother, his stepmother, his Grimm cousins… other students, teachers….

_Is this a metaphor,_ he demanded, sourly, and got a shrug-feeling back.

_Mostly_, it said, and shifted in his mind, with a feeling like plucked harp strings. Baz hadn't played harp in ages, but it thrummed similarly through his head, individual notes. It wasn't painful, exactly, but the reverberations were overwhelming, the more so because… because he always tried so hard to handle them gingerly, distantly…. Everything was safer that way, especially because no one… knew. About him. Still, the connections were there: his family, deep and complex; his friends, cherished if dim; and… and _him, _Simon, who was more than a thread—he was a cord, a cable, and when the hare shifted again and strummed it, it _sang_ through him like a gorgeous chord, harmony that made him feel like he was soaring…. Baz clutched his head.

_Well, well,_ well, said the hare, its tone sly and calculating, and began to shift again, reach to try again, and suddenly Baz was livid.

_Get out, get OUT._ Baz _pushed_—he could almost feel his eyes starting to glow. He _shoved,_ and the dull pain, the feeling of invasion behind his eyes, receded.

Suddenly Baz could breathe, and sit up, and look around. Could see above them, where the specks of gold were buzzing like angry insects.

_"__How did you..."_ The hare's voice was outwardly audible again, and rather taken aback.

"Baz!" Simon's hands were on his shoulders. "Did you just throw it off?"

"Apparently?" Baz avoided looking into Simon's eyes. Thrall fighting thrall was all very well, but Baz had never used it before, and he wasn't about to start now with an accident….

_"__I am out of practice,"_ the hare sneered. Its tone turned gloating, glorying in revealing a great secret. _"And your _roommate_, who is a _vampire_, a monster himself—"_

Simon interrupted, looking utterly unimpressed. "I know, and no, he's not."

_"__You... know."_ It faltered, crestfallen, disappointed, like a gossip whose news is old hat, then rallied, its voice hardening, hissing. _"No matter."_

An explosion of air, and suddenly Baz was five feet away, skidding across the floor to the foot of the large covered mirror by the head altar. Papers—pages torn from some of the songbooks and hymnals in the pews—fluttered down around him. He sat up, dizzy. "Simon?"

Simon was across the aisle, scrambling to his feet, sword _finally _in hand, but the air was full of sharp, splintering laughter.

_"__And what about you, oh golden boy, oh chosen one..."_ The hare, or the haze it seemed to be made up of now, descended on him—he swung his sword, but it laughed as the blade passed right through it, no more effective than against a cloud. _"Foolish,"_ it sneered, and wrapped itself around his head, an eddy of golden glittering mist through which Baz could see Simon's face, shocked and wide-eyed.

Baz tried to pull himself up, but stumbled when the heavy brocade cloth he was grasping slid off the face of the mirror and to the floor. He was up again in a moment, and running over, but almost as quickly, the hare squealed, recoiling away as Simon staggered.

_"__Echhh,"_ it spat, swarming and hissing around him. _"What are you, what _are_ you, you taste like sand and death, rotting soil, you leech, you locust, you cuckoo's egg, sheep-clothed wolf, poor pathetic thing, as well none of them know…."_

"What are you talking about?" snapped Simon, swinging his sword yet again, straight through the center of the cloud, but still ineffectually.

"I don't think it likes the taste of your brain, Snow," Baz drawled, pressing his back to Simon's as they tried to anticipate and dodge the roiling golden haze. "I don't suppose you've seen my wand?"

"Just use mine," Simon said, and pressed it into Baz's hand without even looking.

"This is _not _going to work," Baz muttered (his own brain felt a little broken—no one just _offered _up their wand for someone else to use; it was all but taboo to even touch another magician's instrument, even with permission…), but flicked it. A blue fireball burst into his hand with no problem, though it had no effect when he shot it at the hare.

"Any ideas, here?" Simon asked.

"For fighting an incorporeal ancient monster rabbit? Not a one."

Simon stabbed and swung, Baz sent every offensive spell he could think of, but nothing seemed to make a difference. The hare was wailing again, flurrying around them like a snowstorm, the sound like an ill-hinged gate. Baz thought there were words, but it was ranting, and mostly nonsensically, about heat and death and vengeance.

_"__Doomed. Cursed,"_ he finally heard it say, and he whirled, to sketch a protective ward with the wand, onto Simon's back, and then onto his own chest. He was very quick (he'd only been practicing them for five years), but the hare began to laugh, hollow, echoing. It sounded nothing like a chime any more.

_"__Not cursed by me,"_ it said suddenly, clearly. _"This was upon you long before."_ It was suddenly all around them again, a miasma of white light and gold flecks. _"Perhaps this will be kinder,"_ it said, sounding almost thoughtful. Cold wind began to swirl around them violently, tearing at Baz's breath, whipping his hair into his face.

And then Simon was dropping the Sword of Mages, and choking.

"Simon?" Baz caught and lowered him before he could collapse to the ground, wheezing and twitching.

_Yes,_ said the voice, almost dreamily, and it was in his head again, though softly. _Kinder this way._

"Don't give me that shite," Baz hissed at it. "Come on, Simon, Simon, please breathe." He batted a hand at the haze around them, but he could only watch as Simon struggled to suck in air, clutching weakly at his throat. How could _this _be better than anything…?

_Well,_ it allowed. _Maybe kinder for you._

_NO, _Baz said, screamed mentally at the hare. He couldn't think, but if it was stealing his breath… he tipped Simon's head back slightly, pinched his nose and sealed his mouth over Simon's, blowing in. Simon's chest rose, but he still gasped and choked, and his blue eyes were panicked.

Baz did it again, while shrieking internally at the hare: _Stop, stop, just take mine instead, blame me, go on, I'm the one who killed the others, I _drank_ them, it's my fault they're dead—_

He could feel the hare's rage spike, but it said, _You… not you…._

_Why not me? _He blew another breath into Simon's lungs.

_Won't work on you._

_What? Why not? _Vampires breathe, he thought wildly, I breathe, come on Simon, come _on_.

The only reply was an abrupt flurry of many-colored lights all around them for a moment.

_What— _Baz began to think, to say, when suddenly there was shouting by the door.

It was Penelope and Agatha. They were doing something with the ground that seemed to involve placing stones in a circle, and then Penelope was shouting about _"caught between a rock and a hard place" _and a lot of other things that Baz thought he should probably listen to more closely, but Simon—Simon was still _choking, _and his lips were turning blue, and Baz breathed into his mouth again, but….

Then the wind around them subsided somewhat, and Baz looked up to see the hare sitting in Penelope's circle of stones, transparent but decidedly rabbit-shaped, growling and hissing at them. And most importantly, Simon was _breathing—_gasping and coughing really, but his chest was moving up and down on its own and that was all Baz really cared about.

Agatha was brandishing her mirror, and the hare was staring at it, crouched in its glowing beam of light again, and trembling, but more with anger than fear, Baz could still feel. It seemed to be wriggling, as if in a snare, and what would happen when it broke free?

"Basil!" shouted Penelope. He looked up in time to see her toss him another stone, about the size of a cricket ball. She pointed urgently. "The window!"

He turned, and threw the stone as hard as he could through the center of the stained-glass panel. Not the smartest idea, with the girls present, perhaps he should have held back a little, but it did the trick—the leading burst, glass shattered, and the hare screamed.

Baz scuttled back to Simon (he had turned onto his side and was curled up a little, but still breathing, still breathing), but before he could even check on him again, Penelope was shouting, "Over here, Basil. That just made it corporeal, now we're going to have to fight it."

Baz swore under his breath—he couldn't even use his fangs this time, not in front of the girls—and grabbed up Simon's wand, but by the time he'd hurried the five feet to Penelope's side, it was clear that something strange was happening.

"Penny?" said Agatha, warily, as they all watched. The hare, transparent no longer, was lying on one side, collapsed and shaking within the stone circle in the aisle. It seemed smaller; its fur was white and highlighted with gold, but it was also wet in patches, and it dripped a dark, shimmering liquid, pooling on the stone floor with a rainbow sheen like an oil leak under a car. It was breathing quick and shivery, whistling like a draught under a door.

Penelope's eyes were narrowed. "I'm not sure…."

"Magic sword." Simon's voice came from close behind them, slightly raspy, and Baz turned so quickly he almost fell. Simon looked dazed and wind-swept but whole. Baz wanted to grab him so badly it made his head swim for a moment.

Penelope sounded nearly as relieved as Baz felt. "Oh, Simon, are you—"

"Fine," Simon said, and pushed up next to Baz, leaning only a little. He clutched the Sword of Mages in his right hand, and studied the hare where it lay. "I think… I think maybe now that it has physical form… all those hits I landed before are physical as well."

_"__A solid theory."_ The hare's voice still had that strange ringing, but it was hollow and weak now, and disrupted by shallow panting.

They stood and watched for a moment, watched its side rise and fall, over and over, far too quickly. Simon looked around at them finally, his face pained, and lifted the sword slightly. "I—I don't want it to just _suffer… _should I…."

_"__Unnecessary," _it said, very faintly.

Simon looked back down at it again, and nodded solemnly. He knelt down so that his face was nearly the same level as that shining black eye. "I am sorry," he said quietly. "About your… your family. About this."

Baz twitched. He thought of Simon gasping for breath, and he wasn't very sorry at all.

_Nor I, vampire-child, _the hare said into his mind, gently. The fever of rage and madness seemed gone now, and underneath, a chasm of grief and loneliness yawned open. Baz drew back a little, skirting the edge, but did not withdraw entirely.

_A debt, _it said, its gaze suddenly clear and piercing. Not this again, he thought, but it would not be put off, as stubborn as Simon Snow kneeling by its side, and he didn't have the heart to refuse, so instead he said, _Yes?_

A long pause, while the hare seemed to look into the far distance, eyes dim and unfocused. _Lost,_ it said to him at last, in a tone that was an odd mixture of smug and regretful. _Doomed, you are. Both. But you. Threads, waiting to pull you down, to choke you._

_They won't,_ he snapped instinctively, angry, a little panicked. _I won't let them._

_Eh,_ it said, shrugging, even its mental voice faint now. It caught his eye once more; briefly, he had the impression of walking through a tattered bead curtain over a doorway, trailing wisps of ribbon and thread and broken strings wafting aimlessly through the air, across his face—and then of the other hares, dead, _gone, gone, gone_. _Untethered can be overrated,_ it said, and then he felt its mind withdraw from his as its eyes closed.

Simon shifted, and Baz laid a careful hand on his shoulder until, a minute later, the hare's breathing shuddered out, long and slow, and stopped altogether. Simon shuddered too, and Baz squeezed his shoulder.

Agatha sighed behind them, and asked quietly, "What do we do now? With—"

Baz thought of the water-hare, dissolving into bank of the moat, and of the moon rabbit, catching fire and disappearing. Maybe fire? But before Agatha could even finish, the hare's body shivered slightly and began to sift down with a whisper, turning into a pile of fine powdered dust within the circle of stones.

"Well," said Penelope. A faint draught stirred the dust on the floor until a glint of gold could be seen. Simon reached over and plucked it out—a gold feather. They all watched it gleam in silence for a moment.

"How did you know to come?" Simon said suddenly, into the quiet, looking up at the girls. "I mean, I'm glad you came, you have no idea, but—but _how?"_

"The mirrors," said Agatha. She gestured toward the large one by the altar, and held up her own. "We were getting ready for breakfast, and mine suddenly showed you, Simon, fighting something invisible. Here, in the cathedral."

"It didn't look like it was going very well," her mirror chimed in, wryly. (Its voice was more crystalline, the whine of a finger on the rim of a goblet. Baz had never been sorry that it didn't speak often; the sound set his teeth on edge.)

"It wasn't," Simon said, clambering to his feet and dusting off his hands on the knees of his trousers.

"Simon." Uh-oh. Baz didn't know Penelope Bunce that well yet, but it didn't take Simon's flinch to tell him that that tone of voice did not bode well.

Not to mention the stricken look on her face. "How could you keep this from us, Simon?"

"The note said... that it would be dangerous. And I didn't want to put you in danger."

"What _note?"_

Baz sidled over and sat down in one of the pews. He wasn't _hiding. _He just didn't much like the idea of being the tallest person in the room right now.

"Just... I don't know who it's from. It just said to find the white hares—"

Penelope was practically spluttering. "A mysterious note, from an unknown source, and you just go haring off after it, without even telling anyone—"

Baz tried to hide a snicker, mostly unsuccessfully. Not just at the pun.

But Agatha was not unobservant, nor amused. "What's so bloody funny, Basilton?"

Baz shrugged, languidly. "Just nice to hear that someone else agrees with me about this hare-brained endeavor," he said. "Crowley knows, Snow doesn't listen when _I_ say it."

"'Hare-brained'? That was terrible," Simon told him. "And I listen to you, Baz—"

"But DANGER." Penelope was difficult to distract it seemed, when she wanted to be. "It's all very well to say you want to protect us, but what about _you?"_

Simon hesitated, shrugged. "I have Baz," he said. "He's been—I would have died with the very first rabbit if it weren't for him."

Baz tried not to flinch. Maybe, he thought. Of course, Simon hadn't been trying to wake them up then either; maybe he would have been fine. Maybe he would have been safer...

"Well, thank the gods for that," said Penelope, fervently. "But still, Simon—"

"I haven't even found them all yet, Penny," said Simon. "There are supposed to be six, and I don't know—"

"Six?" Agatha gaped. "How many have you faced so far?" She stared accusingly at Baz.

"This was the third," he answered, when Simon said nothing. When her gaze did not let up, he lifted both hands defensively. "It was Snow's idea to keep you out of this. Don't look at me."

She didn't just look, she glared. "Isn't that _Simon's _wand, there?"

Baz could feel himself blush. "I—I dropped mine, it's—it's here somewhere. This was his idea, as well."

"Was it, now," Agatha muttered, but only Baz seemed to hear her.

"And what is _this_ meant to be for?" Penelope mused, picking up the golden feather and turning it over in her hands.

"There's a key, too," Simon admitted. "And a cup."

Penelope demanded to see them, "because we can _help _you, Simon, you know we can," while Simon tried to protest, and Agatha seethed quietly and did not, in fact, stop glaring at Baz.

Baz lounged back in the pew and looked pointedly away, up at the window, now shattered. He hoped they would leave before they had to explain _that_ to anyone else.

What did he care about Wellbelove hostility? He was here for Simon, and the three remaining hares, one of which was a complete mystery... or was it.

First the moon hare, and then the water hare, and then this one, made of light, made of air... oh bugger.

Baz broke in suddenly, interrupting their debate over what the objects meant. "What—what were the other hares you've found so far, Snow?"

"There's an old locked book in the Mage's office," Simon said. "With a warren of rabbits on the front, in silverwork. And a rabbit-shaped stone in the ritual tower. I don't know anything about the last one though."

Stone, too. Which left... Baz could feel himself blanch, feel any color and warmth of exertion drain from his cheeks, leaving him chilled and clammy with sweat. He nodded once, and said, "Ah. Well. I think we'll definitely be needing more of your help after all, girls." All three of them looked at him oddly, but he leaned forward and scrubbed at his face with his hands, squeezing his eyes shut.

"Basil, what is it?" Penelope sounded concerned, though Baz couldn't imagine why.

Baz shook his head a little, and willed his voice not to shake. "Only that we're probably looking for a hare of fire."


End file.
